


Behind Blue Eyes

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, John-centric, M/M, Meet-Cute, Military Background, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery takes time, Second Impact Syndrom - SIS, Sherlock is mostly the same, modern day fairytale, of a sort, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 18:52:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Mummy Holmes is a social being. Beloved. A philanthropist. She insists her aloof children accompany her to at least one charitable event a year. In an effort to maximize his avoidance of actual tedious human interaction, Sherlock always chooses the one event where he can hide in plain sight: an annual fancy dress masquerade intended to raise awareness of (and funding for) the plight of wounded soldiers.Every year Sherlock grudgingly attends. Every year he endures two hours (the minimum commitment to appease mummy's expectations). Every year he leaves thoroughly unaffected without a backward glance.This year's party is different though. This year's party has something those past parties never did. This year Sherlock meets Captain John H. Watson.





	Behind Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> My heart, and my inspiration. ♡♡♡
> 
> ******
> 
> Story and chapter titles from [Behind Blue Eyes](https://youtu.be/pCMgdq7MQGQ) by The Who (Pete Townsend, 1971)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No one knows what it's like_   
>  _To be the bad man_   
>  _To be the sad man_   
>  _Behind blue eyes_

The last thing John remembers from life before waking up in hospital on a military base in Kandahar, with an excruciatingly chipper American assuring him he was to be on the next transport back to the UK, was being exhausted. He remembers trying to catch a quick kip after their last patrol, being jostled and rattled in the back of the armored personnel truck as the lads joked and shouted around him. Someone near him was mumble-singing a song he knew from his younger days, evocative of summer, and laughter, and freedom.

Then the world surrounding them exploded, flames and earth erupted all around. Metal shrieked as it warped. Men screamed and orders were shouted. There was the concussion of rapid gunfire.

And then nothing.

They tell him he’s a hero. They say half the men who lived that day did so because of Captain Watson. The stuff of legends. He’s heard _”above and beyond”_ so often, the phrase feels like gibberish, like ringing hollow platitudes in his ears.

The other lads that frequent the veteran's center say he's lucky, that the memories of the trauma are the worst part of recovery.

The doctors and therapists seem only mildly concerned that it's been so many months without recollection. “It'll come, John. Give it time,” his sanctioned psychiatrist assures him. She never makes eye contact when she does, only makes note of his clenched left fist in her damn infuriating notebook.

He's left with a cavernous void, unable to justify the damage his body sustained. Injuries that ruined him. Invalidated him. His left shoulder is a knotted snarled mess of scars, front and back, from the bullet that entered from above and behind. The nerves are gone to shit, so he'll never be a surgeon again, despite having almost a complete range of motion. The skin grafts to repair the burns from his right hip down past his knee have all healed well, though the scars and stiffness are forever. But it doesn't explain the limp, a near constant ache, necessitating the use of a cane.

None of the “professionals" assigned to diagnose and oversee his recovery can seem to agree if the limp is psychosomatic, a result of PTSD, or a rare side effect of the Second Impact Syndrome from the multiple concussive hits he’d apparently suffered that day.

What John knows for himself is that he's different than he was before. He gets angry with less provocation. He has dreams, faceless horrific terrors, often enough that he tries to avoid sleep at all costs. When he speaks now, it's with slow deliberate consideration, lest his speech be punctuated with tremors and stuttering.

He knows what people think of him now, the poor wounded warrior -- he’s dim, too damaged, no longer capable. None of that is true. Parts of him still remain, the parts that make him who he is, has always been. He’s still got the knowledge and experience of a seasoned surgeon, the sharp keenness of a soldier, and a cutting wit that was once the envy of all his mates. But he's trapped, held hostage, by his tattered body and a brain that's taken a beating.

What he's left with is a wooden cane one of the lads crafted just for him, a velvet box of ceremonial tin and ribbons, ten missing hours, the haunting melody of a rock song he can never recall the name of (it plays on a near constant loop in the back of his mind most days), a deep bone weariness, and a future as blank and devoid as his memory of _that_ day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got an ever growing list of things I'm working on, but I had a dream last night that inspired this, and I didn't want to lose the inspiration. I've learned to grab it and run with it while I can. ♡


End file.
